


The Only Survivors

by Anarhichas



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarhichas/pseuds/Anarhichas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hates it. He hates it so much he wants to scream and break it beyond repair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Survivors

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt in the kink meme: http://snkkink.dreamwidth.org/2124.html?thread=2315852#cmt2315852 
> 
> Concrit more than welcome!

The couple are arguing. Armin can hear well enough, though he hardly understands. He lies slumped against the beam he is tied to, just breathing.

“I can’t believe you!” the woman is shouting, her voice torn ragged with stress. Her eyes are wide, watery and red rimmed – with sunken cheeks and thin blond hair she looks washed out. “We could still survive and this is all you think of?”

“Shut up!” the man hisses. He is pale, same as the woman, and just as gaunt. “You want it to hear you?”

“You’re fucked up. I can’t believe you.” The woman’s voice is lowered though it doesn’t pause or grow any less fearful. “We can’t let it find us, do you understand? Do you?”

“We’re dead anyway,” the man says. He sounds, Armin thinks, almost fanatic in his certainty – breathless, like someone obsessed. “Might as well – one last time–”

“You’re sick,” the woman says, then, changing tack: “Alfried, we can get out of this. We can. Please, you’re my brother. Trust me.”

“No. You can leave, I’m not. I’m not going to die fucking blue balled cowering in a shit hole like this.” The man’s voice gains resolution as it continues. Armin still cannot understand the argument but real fear is starting to grip him through the haze of head injury; the tone of their voices is more than enough to tell him something is very, very wrong. More wrong than being bound and gagged, easy prey for a titan. His head is ringing, sharp pain dulling into a pervasive ache that leaves his eyes watering, and he struggles against the ropes. He is dimly aware that, the couple standing not two metres away, should he escape he will not get far, but it is instinctual and he cannot stop.

“I’ve looked after you all these years, haven’t I? I promised Mum I would get you out,” the woman says. Her words are thick with tears and she reaches out as if wanting to pull the man away, but does not touch him.

“Stupid bitch is dead, doesn’t matter shit what you promised,” the man spits, and Armin realises suddenly that he is looking straight at him, and that his eyes are hardened with a sort of quiet mania. It is enough to stop his struggling dead. Armin is frozen, save for the breath trembling under his ribs.

“Don’t you dare – you ungrateful bastard,” the woman says, and backs away. “Fine. Die. If all you care about is your fucking prick. We should have kicked you out when we realised you were fucked up. I don’t need a retard brother.”

The man doesn’t reply, not even moving as the woman leaves. He has turned to face Armin, still looking down at him, and Armin can feel base dread creep up in his throat to constrict it. He thought he’d known why he’d been attacked and bound – that his gas had run out so he would save them by being bait for the titan. That he’d serve as a distraction, even an unwilling one, so the couple – the only survivors in this little town – could make their escape. He doesn’t understand this. He doesn’t want to.

Then the man palms his crotch through his trousers, shameless, and Armin cannot help but watch in blank terror. Everything but the two of them seems to fade into the background – the rope cutting into his wrists and ankles; escape; the ruins around them. Even the thought of the titan. Nothing seems quite so real any more. He doesn’t – this can’t be happening. This is not what happens.

The man lets out a groan. His breathing has picked up and as he takes a step forward Armin presses into the wide beam at his back, sharp, broken edges digging into his skin. He tries to kick but with his ankles bound the action is useless, and the man easily steps over him until his feet are either side of Armin’s thighs.

Armin shakes his head, tilted up to meet the man’s gaze. He cannot look away. He tries to plead but all that comes from his mouth, filled with gritty cloth and rope, is a shivering whine, incomprehensible.

“Right,” the man mutters. He crouches and runs a rough hand down from Armin’s belly to force between his legs. No one has ever touched Armin there before, not like this, and the shock of it is sickening. Armin near chokes. He tries to buck the hand off but is pinned to the ground, an insect under a child’s thumb.

“We need to... this won’t work,” the man says, sounding harried. With a single motion he draws a small pen knife and cuts the thin rope tying Armin’s ankles. Hands grab his left leg while his right is knelt on. Armin kicks, twisting in uncoordinated struggles with terror leaving no room for the memory of self defence; breath whistles from his nose until a punch to the gut winds him. Panic fills his head with sand as the rope from his left leg is retied to the straps on his gear, from ankle to thigh to chest, at once pulling his leg up off the ground and folding it close to his body.

The man’s hand returns to fondle inelegantly at Armin’s crotch, rubbing along the seam of his trousers from arse to cock. He mutters, eyes flicking intently between his hand’s work and Armin’s face. “There’s only so long you can last screwing your fist, right?” His voice is hoarse, tone sincere. “She doesn’t get it but she’s just a fucking skirt. You’re a man, you know what I mean. Us men need a proper fuck, regular and all. ‘s just not possible otherwise.”

The man’s hand is shaking as he adjusts his grip on the knife. It draws long cuts in Armin’s bony thighs as it slices his trousers and underwear both, haphazard lines through the material leaving it in pieces to be tugged out from under the 3D gear’s straps and dropped to the ground beside them. “Sorry,” the man apologises, repeatedly and earnestly. “Sorry. We just don’t have much time.”

The pain doesn’t really register. Armin’s eyes shut tight closed. He doesn’t want to see anything. He wants to wake up because this has to be a nightmare. It has to be. It can not be anything else.

“See, I kept this,” the man is saying. “I keep it on me. My sister, she thinks I’m fucking crazy. But I’m not, see? I bet you’re fucking glad I’m not.” The man’s voice is background to the sound of a small cork pulled from a bottle, and faltering it becomes a stuttered groan.

Something wet and blunt pushes against Armin’s arse. He can’t help the noise he makes, small and desperate. Strong hands turn his struggling body so that he’s tilting to the side on his unbound leg, which is still crushed into the sharp ground. His bound leg is grasped, holding him there.

This has to stop now, Armin thinks wildly, as he writhes. Someone has to find them and stop this. Even the titan. This has to stop.

It doesn’t. The man pushes himself in and it’s like Armin is being torn apart, inch by slow inch. It is wrong, disgusting on a fundamental level, and Armin feels as if he should tear himself from his skin and crawl away. He wants to scream, break his bones just to hide somewhere dark and small and never come out.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” the man grunts. A clumsy, moist hand pets Armin’s face. “You should relax. Try to relax.”

It feels as if a tight fist is clenching his lungs. Armin can barely breathe; sobs rack his chest and built up behind his gag like a blocked drain.

The man withdraws and the absence is almost as bludgeoning as its presence. A finger, dripping greasy and cold, is its replacement, which is removed only to return wetter and slicker.

Armin presses the side of his head against the wooden beam as hard as he can, just to suffer something besides sick horror as the man pulls out his finger and pushes his cock back in. It burns deeper, this time. It feels like the insistent slow thrust of it is ruining Armin’s insides, distorting them beyond repair. Splinters dig into the soft skin of his face.

He wants to beg. _Please stop, please stop please just stop. Please_. He can’t.

The thrust slows, then stops. It withdraws a little then pushes back. A rhythm forms, one which shakes the entirety of Armin’s body even as it wrecks his insides.

He wants to die. He needs it to be over. The pain and disgust seems enough to shred his guts, his arse, forcing their way up his spine by breaking it piece by piece. He did not know it was possible for anything to hurt this much.

The man grunts, panting hot, humid breath over Armin’s face and neck. “Yeah,” he’s saying, punctuating the words with his thrusts. “Yeah that’s good, keep doing that. You’re a fucking great little hole. God you’re good.”

The man slows and stops, half inside. He fumbles with Armin’s bound leg, bending it and moving it aside, and realigning himself he pushes back in until they’re pressed tight together and he can slide in no further.

“Fuck,” he grunts as he withdraws and drives back, just as deep. “You’re a good fuck. Bet they love you. Damn, I’m going to come, going to fill your tight hole right up. Going to fill you good.”

The thrusts become sloppy, losing their rhythm. Armin is suffocating behind his tears, snot and gag.

The man stiffens as he comes, his breath stuttering and hips jerking. Then, slowly withdrawing, he bends and presses sweaty lips to Armin’s lips and jawline. Armin is frozen, save for his shivering; the touch to his face is like a smear of filth. His arse, his guts – they’re a parasite now, not him, merely connected and draining him. The man sighs, stifling and sick smelling in Armin’s face, and clambers off.

“Damn, you’re good. We should hook up again, for sure – d’you think? You’re real pretty, but thin – you ought to eat more. Thanks, anyway.” Hands brush Armin’s face, sticky fingers running through his hair. “You really saved me there; I owe you one. Thanks.” Then the hands and voice leaves and Armin is left alone on the ground. Pain throbs. Has he bled out? He doesn’t think so, in the part of his mind still clinging to logic, but he feels drained away of anything but hollow agony. The man is gone but the relief is dull and trembling.

He wants to claw out his own guts.

Like he’s made of soft clay squashed into ugly disfigurement, impossible to fix, the memory of the touch, the burn and tear, does not fade nor grow any easier to acknowledge. Armin curls into himself as far as the rope allows and cries, wet and ugly, nose running and blowing bubbles in its effort to breathe.

For the first time in his life he wants a titan to appear. He just wants it to be over. If he’s eaten then no one will find him and realise what happened. He was never strong, as Mikasa is, or with Eren’s determination. He’s certainly no soldier now. He can’t go back and act like he’s an equal or worthy of their time. Can’t face his friends now. Not anyone.

Armin feels the pondering footsteps before he hears them, and he keeps his eyes closed and wet face tucked into his shoulder. He wonders distantly whether the titan will break the rope tying him to the beam, or whether his hands will tear off first. They are entirely numb; will it even hurt?

The titan is groaning a senseless, eager rumble. Armin’s breath tries to suffocate him and he can feel his blood pulse in time with the desperate beat of his heart. His stomach roils, ready to throw up.

He is terrified, Armin realises. He doesn’t want to die at all.

Straightening out his free leg is excruciating. Armin does it anyway, kicking furrows in the dirt. He pulls at his hands, twists, but sitting up is like a knife in his guts and he cannot do it. The knots are as secure as they ever were and he cannot escape. The titan lumbers closer.

How can the world be so unfair? Armin hates it and he hates himself. Lying on the floor and useless to everyone, yet wanting to live and not being able to. He kicks one last time, then falls still after curling back up.

He hates it. He hates it so much he wants to scream and break it beyond repair. More than anything else he wants to live in the different world, where there are no titans and he is not a soldier, where the sea and peace are not an impossible dreams. He just wants it to be morning again and for this to have never happened.

“Armin?” The word is quiet. He thinks he imagines it. “Armin?”

Shouldn’t the titan have reached him by now? But he doesn’t want to look only to see it stretch down a grasping hand. Doesn’t want to see its teeth and bloodied mouth.

“Armin, please.” It sounds like Eren, he realises, and opens his eyes. The world is distorted with tears but Eren is unmistakeable, standing in front of him. The titan is dead in the mouth of the street. Eren’s face is white, expression stricken. When he speaks his voice is thin and cracking.

Armin closes his eyes. Shame fills him up until he thinks he could die from it. He doesn’t want this – any of it. After a long moment there’s a touch at the back of his head and even though he realises it’s only Eren struggling to undo the rope tying his gag in place, he flinches heavily. Armin can’t see or otherwise feel him, but he knows Eren is close. Too close. He is trembling, and when the rope finally falls away and he slowly, agonisingly, spits the gag from his mouth, he only starts to cry again.

The sobs vie with his aching lungs trying to breath. His tied leg is freed next, and it burns as it straightens. But Eren is here, and all his life he’s tried to be strong in front of Eren.

Armin cradles his hands to his chest when they’re untied. They are swollen, the flesh purple under streaks and smears of blood, but still numb; one of his fingernails has been torn off and it’s bleeding, but it doesn’t hurt. The sight without pain is almost surreal.

All the pain is sitting in his abdomen, curdled, festering like disease.

“Armin?” Eren’s voice is frightened, more so than Armin has ever heard before. It is thin and hesitant, as unsure as someone addressing a corpse. Armin flinches when something settles against his hips, from waist to thigh, but it is only Eren’s cloak. It’s only then he realises that, of course, his trousers are in tatters and exposing him entirely, crotch to arse to blood encrusted thighs. That he’d forgotten is almost enough to make him laugh, or choke, and the noise he makes causes Eren to recoil.

“We should go, there might be more – can you stand? I could – if you – I could carry you. On my back, or.” Eren rushes his words; they stumble together. “I – who did this? Tell me who and I’ll kill them, I swear it. I’ll fucking kill them.”

He sounds so earnest it’s frightening. Armin is still crying as he crawls to his knees and shakes his head, unable to turn his face from the ground. He wants, desperately, for Eren to be as he always has been, for the world to stay as it was that morning, uncontaminated. He doesn’t want Eren anywhere near that man.

He wants too much, he knows.

“Why not?” Eren’s voice is starting to twist into something ragged and ugly. “They – they deserve to die.”

“I think a titan got him,” Armin says, small and wet through his tears, and has no idea where the lie comes from. The words hurt his throat and he can’t look up at Eren for fear of what they’ll both see.

Eren doesn’t respond to that. They remain there – Armin on hands and knees, feeling stabbing pins and needles return sensation to his fingers and crying quiet gasps, and Eren standing, slack handed and lost.

“We should go, but – can you?” Eren says, finally, and the insecurity in his voice makes him sound like a child again. “I could try find help but. I don’t want to leave. Can you?”

Splitting up is a bad idea but Armin doesn’t think he can walk, let alone use his 3D gear. Not that he can use it anyway, with no gas. But what, then? What if the man returns? What if they’re walking and run into titans? He can’t think. “I don’t know what to do,” he says, wretched, and the confession is shameful. “I’m sorry – I don’t know what to do.”

“No, don’t–” Eren starts, crouching down to reach out a hand, but stops dead when Armin cringes away.

“Sorry,” Armin begs, “I’m sorry, but, please, can you turn around?”

After a second that seems to take an age Eren stands and turns in silence. Armin stands also, slowly, throat bobbing with the pain of it. He must be getting blood on Eren’s cloak – blood, and worse – and the thought brings with it a new wave of nausea and shame. The cloak is large enough to cover everything from waist to knees but he still feels as exposed as if he were naked.

God, moving hurts. His body feels pulverised – beaten, smashed apart and carelessly put together again. The thought of having to walk and ride back the miles to base is almost enough to make him lie back down again, give up here and now, because how can face that? The pain and the fear of humiliation when everyone sees him and knows what happened?

Armin trembles with it.

“Eren,” he says, small. “What do I do?”

The force of Eren transforming so close is enough to bowl him head over heels, and pain splashes black in his vision. Armin is scooped up in giant hands even as he’s gasping for breath, and can do nothing but hold on as Eren starts to run.

They’re weaving through the town and heading back to base, Armin realises distantly. They’ll be in serious trouble for not just breaking formation but for returning instead of finding the others – but for once, he can not bring himself to care. Eren’s skin is hot, almost burning, and Armin presses against it in the vain hope of relief.

There are glimpses of blood and rubble in the streets below. Fearing what else he might see, Armin closes his eyes tight shut.


End file.
